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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767541">who'd have known</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummies/pseuds/gummies'>gummies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Character, Bullying, Character Study, M/M, Scopophobia, Stimming, childhood neglect, internalized ableism, touch sensitivity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:47:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummies/pseuds/gummies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child, Jon always had trouble meeting others’ eyes. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>501</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. eyes for watching</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As a child, Jon always had trouble meeting others’ eyes. </p><p>It wasn’t because he was lying, or guilty, or whatever his teachers thought when they tapped their feet and stopped the lecture to ask why he wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t because he was weird, no matter what the other kids said when they whispered and laughed in the hallways. It wasn’t even because he had bad eyesight- which he <em> did</em>, actually, but he had glasses. </p><p>It was just… hard. </p><p>Jon didn’t like being looked at. He never had. There was something about it that made him feel so small. Like a bug under a magnifying glass. </p><p>The worst part was that he<em> knew </em> people were watching him. Could feel it in the prickle down his arms, in the way the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He tried not to pay attention to it, tried to put his head down and get to class as fast as possible. But he could <em> feel </em> them looking. Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from glancing up, morbid curiosity briefly overtaking the fear, and he’d make eye contact with some leering student. Usually, Jon would look away first. Sometimes, he’d freeze like a deer in headlights, paralyzed as he watched them nudge their friends and laugh. Utterly, unreasonably afraid. </p><p>There was a repeating assignment Jon's teacher liked to give. Every month or so, everyone would have to prepare an essay to present to the rest of the class. They had the option to work in pairs, but every time Jon had been partnered with another student it was because the teacher put them together. No one ever seemed happy to work with him- sometimes they were even actively mad. Jon stopped asking for a partner after the third time. He always ended up having to do the project on his own, anyways. Instead, he asked his teacher if he could read the essay to her in private. But she just sighed that all to familiar sigh that adults loved to give Jon, the one he knew meant he was being annoying, and told him it was important for <em> social growth</em>. Someone behind him snorted, and Jon kept his eyes trained on his desk.</p><p>The presentations were, of course, terrible. He’d sit at his desk with sweaty palms, dreading the inevitable until his name was called, and the walk to the front of the classroom tended to feel more like he was heading to a guillotine than a chalkboard. </p><p>It was easier if he didn’t look up. Just stared down at the paper in his trembling hands, reading as fast as he could without stumbling over his words. That was the one part that wasn’t completely terrible- the writing. It wasn’t <em> fun</em>. It was just work. But he was good at it. Plus, there was something nice about being able to take the time to sort out his thoughts and jot them down so clearly. When a sentence sounded wrong, he could just erase it and start again. No backtracking, no time limits. The same certainly couldn’t be said for conversations.</p><p>Still, the presentations were a nightmare. There was always a horrible, silent moment right after he finished, before the teacher would urge everyone to clap politely. A split-second of undiluted scrutiny, practically physical in its weight. Seeing. <em> Judging. </em></p><p>(Almost two decades later, when Jon has all but trained eye contact into himself, and it’s been years since he’s felt anything worse than passing discomfort at the sight of himself in a stranger’s, he will meet a man who’s gaze holds a weight worse than that of an elementary classroom, and he won't look away from his hands until the interview is over.)</p>
<hr/><p>Jon thought Martin might be upset with him.</p><p>He hadn't done anything wrong. At least, he didn't<em> think </em> he had. The day started normally enough- they'd made and eaten breakfast, chatted about everything and nothing, even tried out some of the battered old board games they'd picked up at the shop in town. But by the time their morning walk rolled around, Martin was acting strange. Not… mad, really, or anxious, or <em> lonely</em>. Just. Quiet. </p><p>He wasn't talking as much as usual. Just smiling and shrugging as Jon fumbled through conversation. It was almost funny- Jon had never considered himself particularly talkative, even at the heights of his irritant youth, but that morning it seemed as though he was just unable to shut his mouth. He found himself talking about every little thing that popped into his head as they walked, as if the right combination of words would snap Martin back into his sweet, rambling self. Or act as an apology for whatever it was Jon had done to insult him. </p><p>(It was all a bit familiar. Certainly not as bad as slamming doors and bitter laughter, but. Jon didn't want it to come to that. It wouldn't come to that.)</p><p>Jon tried to tell himself that Martin was just taking in the countryside. The highlands were <em> beautiful. </em> Nothing but rolling hills for miles, broken only by the sparse smatterings of trees and wild brush. The sky was as gray as London's ever was, but… softer. Not with the stark, sickly trails of smoke-stack fog, but a pale mist that rose overhead like something out of a fairy tale.</p><p>It was all rather breathtaking. Neither Jon nor Martin had spent much time outside city limits, and it was a welcome, if abrupt, change of pace. The sheer isolation of it all had taken some getting used to, at first. Their nearest neighbour was a farm half a mile away, and the walk down the the village was farther still. </p><p>They weren't walking all the way, this time. The pantry was stocked to make it another week at the very least, and it was too wet and too cold out to justify the trip otherwise. Still, it was nice to get a breath of fresh air. It'd taken a few close calls, but they'd gotten the lay of the land enough not to get lost anymore. Hopefully.</p><p>There were a number of landmarks they followed, and Jon took pointing them out as another excuse to blabber. The big rock. The other big rock. The tree that had fallen over. A particularly vicious patch of bramble. The tree with the bird's nest at the top branch. A third, even bigger rock. </p><p>Martin didn’t really contribute, just nodded along. He didn’t <em> seem </em> angry, but that could mean anything. Things like tone and expressions were difficult for Jon to parse at the best of times. He went over the morning’s events for what felt like the hundredth time, combing their interactions for any sort of unintentional slight. </p><p>Jon was deep in trying to decide if he'd taken the teasing too far after beating Martin at <em> Candy Land </em> when he felt it. That old tingle at the back of his neck. He glanced over and, sure enough, Martin was looking at him. </p><p>He was in jeans and a t-shirt, sleeves pulled a little tight around the broad expanse of his arms. There were freckles on his shoulders, dusted faintly along the pale skin. Paler still was Martin’s hair- once a dirty blonde, now a white so stark it made Jon’s graying streaks seem youthful. Martin had grown it out during Jon’s stay at the hospital, but he’d cut it himself on their second day in the safehouse. Now it framed his face in choppy, uneven curls. The sight of them blowing in the wind made something terribly fond bubble up in Jon’s chest.</p><p>Martin’s expression was inscrutable, lips parted ever so slightly, and a soft intensity to his eyes. </p><p>(Those had also changed since coming out of the lonely. The color had faded, somewhat. Still there, but… dimmer. Muted. There was something new behind them now, though. Not the exhausted determination Jon had grown so accustomed to, or even the forced cheer that predated it. Jon didn’t have to <em> know </em> to know it was a change for the better.)</p><p>Jon nearly shuddered. It wasn't from discomfort- Martin was probably the only person in the world Jon <em> wanted </em> to look at him. His eyes were as gentle as his hands, and Jon would gladly put himself in either. It was still a lot, though. Not judging, not cruel. Just. A lot. </p><p>Sometimes, Jon wondered if Martin could still <em> see </em> him, even after they'd left the lonely and the compulsion long-since should've worn off. Martin's gaze was <em> heavy</em>. Not suffocating in the way that Elias' was, but... enveloping. Like a blanket. </p><p><em> It wouldn't be so bad</em>, he mused. Would probably make things easier. No more filtering his thoughts and feelings into words that never felt quite right. Just quiet communion.</p><p>Back in the present, Martin noticed him looking and offered a small smile. </p><p>“Are you mad at me?” Jon blurted.</p><p>“I- <em> what?</em>” Martin asked, and that unreadable expression was quickly replaced with one Jon recognized- thank God. Raised eyebrows, wide eyes. Good old Bewilderment. “Why would you think that?”</p><p>"You haven't been talking to me." Jon said, and the words sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He felt his face flush and tugged his cardigan closer, trying to pretend it was from the cold. It wasn't hard- he’d been practically shaking since they left the cabin. Frost from the night before crunched underfoot, and the wind was against them. The temperature didn't seem to bother Martin, which was a little worrying. But Martin had always run a tad warmer than usual- had told Jon so, once, what felt like a lifetime ago. </p><p>(They’d been leaving the Institute together. Not intentionally, of course. At least, not on his end. Jon had made the connection that all of Martin’s late days coincided with his own early days <em> embarrassingly </em>recently. </p><p>It’d started raining despite the day’s forecast, and they didn’t have a single umbrella between them. Martin had at least had the foresight to bring a sweater, however- one which he gladly offered to Jon without hesitation. Jon had declined, obviously. More out of principle than anything else. </p><p>Now, Jon thought longingly of that sweater and its long, patterned sleeves. It was likely back in Martin’s flat, gathering dust with the rest of his things. They hadn’t had the time to stop at either of their apartments before fleeing London. <em> And </em> they still didn’t have proper coats, because last visit to the store they’d only remembered the reason they’d gone in the <em> first place </em> when they were halfway home. </p><p>Jon wondered if Martin would try to give him his sweater, these days. Judging by the way his eyes kept trailing down Jon’s exposed arms almost guiltily- as if <em> anything </em> about their current situation was his fault- the answer was yes. That knowledge alone made Jon feel warm enough.)</p><p>Martin's face softened. There was a glint of something in his eyes- pity? No, understanding. </p><p>Not for the first time, Jon wondered what Martin saw when he looked at him. He had a hard time imagining it was anything good, but why else would Martin do it so often? Jon wondered if it was anything like what he saw when he looked at Martin. He hoped so. God, he hoped so.</p><p>"...I'm not mad at you," Martin reassured him, voice gentle. "I'm just... thinking.”</p><p>The irony of the situation was not lost on Jon. How many times had Jon come into work without stepping out of his own head, bitter and scathing even when he hadn't meant to be (especially when he hadn't meant to be), letting his mood boil over and burn anyone unlucky enough to be near? How many times had Martin weathered it with wringing hands and gritted teeth, wondering what he'd done wrong? How many times had they been in this same situation, positions reversed? Except Martin had never been as cruel as Jon had, even in the heights of the… <em> everything </em> that was happening. Even when he had more reason than Jon ever did. And here Jon was, fretting over Martin not being in the mood to chat.</p><p><em> I'm sorry, </em> Jon wanted to say. <em> I'm sorry I was so thoughtless for so long. I'm sorry I took you for granted. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me to be. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you when I should've. I'm sorry I complained about you on the tapes when all you were doing was your best. I'm sorry I never told you how good your tea was, how much I looked forward to it every morning. I'm sorry I never went out to the pub with you and the others when we were still in Research. I'm sorry I didn't let you walk me to my cab after the Institute's holiday party. I'm sorry I didn't take your sweater. I'm sorry I don't have one to offer you right now, and I'm sorry that it probably wouldn't fit you if I did. I love you. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to realise. </em></p><p>“Oh.” Jon said instead. </p><p>“Yeah.” Martin answered, scratching his neck. He glanced away, and Jon kept staring for a moment before taking that as his cue to as well. </p><p>The sun had risen higher overhead, peeking out from behind a veil of clouds. A flock of birds flew by, squawking faintly. Soon enough, they’d be at the point to turn back- a great oak with a rotting tire swing. </p><p>The first time they’d stumbled upon it, Martin had suggested Jon get on and let Martin push him, clearly joking. Jon had opened his mouth to laugh it off, only to think <em> What the Hell? </em> and hop on. Martin’s disbelief turned quickly to delight as he shoved the tire and Jon screeched like, as Martin so eloquently put, “a cross between a feral cat and a banshee”.<br/>
<br/>
<em> (Martin was doubled over and giggling. “You told me to push you!” he choked out from between gasps of breath. </em></p><p>
  <em> “Not that hard!” Jon snapped. The tire was still swinging much too violently to be comfortable, and he was clinging onto the rope for dear life. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Here- let me just-” Martin inched forwards, hands reaching out threateningly every time the tire came within range. </em>
</p><p><em> “Do </em> not <em> grab me!” Jon warned. He tried to keep his tone sharp, but it was hard with a smile. </em></p><p>
  <em> “How else should I get you down?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Just stop the tire!” Jon yelled. Martin grabbed the rope closest to him and tugged. The swing stilled, but Jon didn’t. Momentum threw him forward, slamming into Martin and knocking them both over.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They landed in a heap in the mud, Martin flat on his back and Jon sprawled out on top of him. He’d thrown out his hands to try and catch himself, and ended up clutching Martin’s pectoral rather embarrassingly. For a moment they just looked at each other, faces close enough that Jon could see the puffs of their breaths mingling. Then the humor of the situation kicked in and they both burst into laughter. Jon rolled off of Martin and hauled himself upright, offering Martin his hand and nearly falling back down when he took it.)</em>
</p><p>“...What’re you thinking about?” Jon asked, because that seemed like the next thing to say.</p><p>“Oh. Erm, you know.” Martin chuckled nervously. Jon frowned.</p><p>“I don’t.” he said quickly. “I haven’t- I’ve been trying not to.”</p><p>Trying, occasionally succeeding. Jon couldn’t tell if it was getting easier to control, if it was even something he <em> could </em> control, could keep at bay. But he had to try. If not for himself, if not for his <em> victims</em>, for Martin. </p><p>Shame flooded him at the memory of the tape Martin had left for Basira. Hadn’t even trusted Jon to stop on his own, which… was justified. Painful, but justified. It was a good reminder, though. Of what not to let happen. Jon didn’t want to be a monster, but he <em> really </em> didn’t want Martin to think of him as one. </p><p>"I- it's a phrase, Jon." Martin said, and Jon could hear the smile in his voice. "I wouldn't… I know you're doing your best."</p><p>Jon's stomach swept at those words, and <em> God</em>, he was in deep, wasn't he? Ready to swoon at the faintest of Martin's praise. When had he fallen so hard, and how on earth did it take him so long to notice?</p><p>"Oh." Jon repeated. </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>The conversation fell back into a lapse, but this time, the silence was comfortable. Jon took a deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs. It was beautiful out, despite the weather. He could almost pretend they were just... on vacation. Two Londoners taking a break from busy city life, no worries worse than the lack of cell service. Jon wondered what it would be like. Probably not too different from what they were doing, in all honesty. <em> Maybe we could come back, one day</em>, he mused. <em> Once it’s all over. If it ever can be. </em> </p><p>Jon had never considered himself one for… domesticity. Had never really seen the appeal. But with Martin, it came frighteningly naturally. Like a puzzle piece slotting into somewhere inside him that'd been empty for so long he'd forgotten it was even there. Jon was almost guilty about how right it all felt. They were <em> on the run</em>, for God’s sake. A safehouse tucked out in the middle of nowhere shouldn’t feel more like home than the flat he’s lived in for years. </p><p>He tried not to think about his flat, empty and waiting. The police had probably already come by, picked it clean. Assuming that his landlord hadn’t realized he wasn’t getting next month’s rent and thrown everything out. How much longer was his lease good for, anyways? He wasn't going to kid himself, there was no way he was going to be able to live alone after this. The mere thought of waking up without Martin next to him was unbearable. The real thing might just kill him.</p><p><em> I don't have to find out if it will or not</em>, Jon reminded himself. <em> I can have this. We deserve to have this. </em></p><p>Jon turned his head to the side, looking resolutely at the passing greenery as he bridged the gap between them and took Martin’s hand. The movement was clumsy, and Martin startled at the touch. Jon instinctively went to jerk away just as Martin’s grip steeled, tightening around his wrist. A second later and their palms were pressed together, fingers interlocking. Jon realized, distantly, that the last time they’d held hands was as they left the Lonely. There was something poetic there, but, well. Jon had never been all that good with words.</p><p>Martin didn’t say anything. Thank God. Jon didn’t think he’d be able to respond, with how tight his throat felt. Instead, his hand squeezed Jon’s. Jon squeezed back. </p><p>The tickle at the back of his neck was welcome when it came.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. hands for holding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Touch wasn't a big part of Jon's life.</p><p>It might've been once, he thought. Before his parents' deaths, possibly. His grandmother, while not neglectful, had never been particularly sociable- which was fine. Preferable, even. There was only so much human contact Jon could take in a day, and by the time he'd come home from school, he tended to have had his fill. So he'd go to his room and his grandmother would go to hers. They usually saw each other at some point before bed, even on the nights when he had to make his own dinners. </p><p>The point was, Jon's grandmother wasn't the affectionate type. But it was fine, because he wasn't either. </p><p>As a teenager, Jon fancied himself something of a lone wolf. He never really got on with other kids, even after he started looking them in the eye. He'd try, sometimes, but it never worked, and he'd never know exactly why. Social interaction remained a mystery to him, like a secret code he was desperately trying to decipher. He didn't have friends. But that was also fine, because he had books.</p><p>(And then, suddenly, he didn't. It was six months before he asked his grandmother to start getting them again, seven before Jon actually opened one. He never did stop checking for little metal plaques.)</p><p>All of this made for a… definite lack of physical contact in Jon's life. Really, the only time he was touched was at school. Getting jostled in the crowds as he darted between classes, that sort of thing.</p><p>Sometimes it was worse. </p><p>Before high school, Jon hadn't been bullied. He'd been made fun of, sure, and excluded, but the worst it ever came to was having his heels stepped on when the class lined up. Maybe a shove or two, or some pointed mocking when he flapped his hands. It wasn't that bad. It certainly didn't hold a candle to having his face slammed into a locker so hard he saw stars, or being kicked while he was curled in a ball on the ground, or feeling a switchblade being pressed to his back. Or any number of things that children liked to do to other children.</p><p>Jon tried not to be a target. This was made difficult for a multitude of reasons, the most obvious being that he was practically half the size of the other boys in his grade. Self defense wasn’t much of an option, and it wasn't like he could <em> intimidate </em> anyone. Not that he didn't try. By the time his second year rolled around, Jon had retreated into himself as best he could, glaring and snarling at anyone and everyone. It didn't <em>work,</em> obviously, but it did help him feel a bit better when he got the shit beat out of him.</p><p>(The habit will stick. For a while. Then it’ll twist into a sort of terrible, lingering hyper-awareness, setting him on edge every time someone comes within two feet of him. Like he has any reason to be scared of the balding forty-something shaking his hand and welcoming him to his new job. Like he has any reason to be the way he is. </p><p>Then, one day, he’ll stop flinching when someone moves near him. He’ll stop being able to move at all. The spiking alarm will be replaced with a low, all-consuming dread. The certainty of impending pain. The inability to pull away, because what’s one more scar? It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. It's not like he doesn't see it coming.)</p>
<hr/><p>Daisy’s safehouse did not contain a kettle. This was, perhaps, something Jon should’ve expected. Still, he was rather put out to discover it while rummaging through the cabinets at sunup.</p><p>It was one of what Jon was coming to recognise as the rare mornings when he woke up before Martin. He’d almost gone back to bed- a prospect that’d never before seemed so alluring. Jon had always been an insomniac. Getting to bed was enough of an issue in of itself- staying there was even harder. When he did sleep, it tended to be in short bursts, which he jolted out of at the slightest noise. </p><p>Lately, however, Jon slept like his body was making up for lost time. </p><p>He was still having nightmares, of course. He’d long since accepted them as just another facet of the horrorshow that his life had become. Why should the fear be contained to just his waking life, when it could haunt his sleep, as well? <em> No rest for the wicked </em> and all that.</p><p>The dreams weren’t abating. Probably never would. But they were easier to deal with, when he woke up in the crook of a wide arm, clinging on like it’d hide Jon from the prying eyes inside his own mind. No sound save for Martin’s snores, nearly lost beneath the pitter-patter of rain on the muntined window. Jon had never owned a white noise machine, but he was starting to see the appeal. </p><p>It’d been a long time since Jon had slept beside someone. Longer still since he’d enjoyed it. He had a feeling it had been for Martin, too.</p><p>There was something absurdly comforting about sleeping next to another person. Hearing them breathe, noticing the mattress shift with them, even just <em> smelling </em> them so close- though that last one sounded a tad odd, said aloud. Jon felt… protected. Which was silly, considering the magnitude of just what it was that he was feeling protected <em>from.</em> He’d read Benjamin Hatendi’s statement. He knew the blanket didn’t do anything.</p><p><em> (Then again,</em> Jon had thought, fingers trailing through the wisps of Martin’s hair, tucking a fog-white strand out of his closed eyes. <em> Maybe it did.) </em></p><p>Anyways, most mornings, Jon came to a good hour or two after Martin. Breakfast tended to be made already, despite the fact that he’d demanded (fruitlessly) that Martin wake him up so he could help. When Jon had roused and found Martin sprawled out over him, sound asleep, he jumped at the opportunity to get revenge. By making his boyfriend pancakes.</p><p>(Embarrassingly, Jon’s heart still skipped a beat every time he even <em>thought</em> that word. He was trying to get used to it, though. Juvenile as it was, he wanted to be able to say it without going red to the tips of his ears. So, he was doing a bit of internal exposure therapy. <em>There’s my boyfriend, Martin.</em> <em>My boyfriend</em>. <em>Martin. Boyfriend.</em>)</p><p>Once he’d extracted himself from Martin’s death-grip, Jon had scoured the kitchenette for about twenty minutes before resorting to boiling the water in one of Daisy’s few pots. The dishware was utilitarian and, aside from a truly alarming amount of butcher’s knives, rather understocked. Definitely not intended for more than one person.</p><p>Most of what they’d bought from the shop had been frozen meals. The selection besides was rather bare, considering they’d had to optimize their amount of groceries with just how many bags two people could carry for an hour without collapsing. This number, as it turned out, was somewhere around six. On their first trip, they’d had about ten.</p><p>
  <em> (“I’m never walking again.” Martin groaned, voice muffled from where his face pressed into the couch’s arm. Jon didn’t answer- he was having some trouble breathing. </em>
</p><p><em> He hadn’t thought he was particularly out of shape, was the thing. Sure, he’d never been quite </em> physically inclined, <em> even when he was still eating somewhat regularly- part of the reason he’d been so set on an office job, if he was honest. But he could never remember a loaf of bread and some soup boxes feeling so heavy.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Martin had the natural advantage of being tall and broad, even if he’d clearly been missing meals. Jon was not nearly as tall, and noticeably underweight. Maybe they needed to start taking walks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jon and Martin had left the groceries at the door, still in their bags, and collapsed onto the sofa. Jon could vaguely remember holding some ill will towards its level of comfort this morning. Now, the lumpy pillows felt like clouds. His legs ached, his arms burned, and his lungs felt like they’d been through a dust storm. For a split-second, he considered getting a cup of water from the tap. Then he remembered that it would require moving, and the thought was quickly banished from mind.) </em>
</p><p>Among their current commodities was a large box of pancake mix that Jon had slipped into their shopping cart on a whim. He’d never actually made pancakes before, instant or otherwise, but he figured that it couldn’t be <em> too </em> hard. There were even instructions on the back. They were in Gaelic, which might've been an issue for anyone else. As it was, Jon only noticed halfway through. Small blessings, he supposed.</p><p>When he finished, Jon looked upon his work with distaste. Each pancake was a different size and shape, most varying levels of overcooked. Particularly pitiful was a lopsided attempt at a heart, which Jon had nearly upturned the bowl over out of shame.</p><p>He entertained the thought of just tossing the batch and starting over. There was enough mix left in the box for it, but it'd already been a while, and Martin might wake up before Jon was done. Plus, he'd broken up their only candy bar to add in place of chocolate chips. The pieces had mostly melted, staining the pancakes an unappetising brown. At least they smelled good.</p><p>He stacked them on a plate with some effort. The safehouse also didn’t have any butter or maple syrup, so Jon just lightly salted them and hoped that'd be good enough. He walked determinedly towards the bedroom, then doubled back to take the pot of boiling water off the burner.</p><p>He knew how Martin liked his tea- green jasmine, with enough sugar to ease the taste, but not enough to be overpowering. </p><p>Jon hadn't <em> known </em> it, which he was proud of. Instead, he'd figured it out the normal way- by stealing what remained of Martin's morning tea while he was in the shower and experimenting until he had a perfect recreation. Okay, maybe not <em> quite </em> the normal way, but "How do you take your tea?" seemed like an embarrassing thing to ask this far into their whole… situation. And he might've wanted to impress Martin. Just a little bit.</p><p>Not that he thought he’d get very far, with the state his meal had ended up in. Oh well. <em> This was a trial run. I’ll do better next time,</em> Jon promised himself, <em> now that I know what not to do.</em></p><p>Jon had taken two steps towards the door when it slammed open. Standing behind it was Martin, looking panicked. </p><p>He was still in his sleep clothes, hair unbrushed, and breathing hard. As soon as his eyes landed on Jon, Martin sagged with relief. </p><p>"Martin-" Jon yelped, startled, but was cut off as the other man rushed forward, crossing the distance between them in one long stride. Jon abruptly found himself being gathered into a tight hug. When it became clear he was not going to be let go, Jon transferred the plate to one hand so he could bring the other up to the small of Martin's back, doing his best to rub soothingly.</p><p>Martin, Jon had learned, liked to be touched. Even when he was distressed. <em> Especially </em> when he was distressed. This had been somewhat difficult for Jon to grasp, at first. For him, touch wasn’t… well, it wasn’t <em> bad. </em> Mostly just oppressive. Intense.</p><p>When Jon was upset, contact tended to be overwhelming. The bad kind of overwhelming. Honestly, he hadn’t even known there was a <em> good </em> kind of overwhelming until the first time they’d shared a bed.</p><p>
  <em> (That morning, Jon had woken up feeling like he was floating. He was at once both detached and completely grounded. It took him a few minutes to locate himself within the tingling sense of pressure that had become his skin, another few to realize what it stemmed from. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When he opened his eyes, Martin was on top of him, the bulk of his body pinning Jon’s into the mattress. His face was tucked into the pillow beside Jon’s head. Their legs were tangled, and Jon could feel one heavy arm around his waist, the other blocking his side to keep him in place. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jon instantly felt much more sympathetic to the Buried’s avatars. Was this what they were looking for? This sense of pure embrace, this clinging comfort? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But, no- Jon had been to the Buried. Had felt the weight of the world pushing down on him like they'd be one if it just squeezed hard enough. And he knew that an eternity in the dirt didn't hold a candle to a moment in Martin's arms. Not for him.) </em>
</p><p>"Martin?" Jon tried again, concern tinging his voice. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"</p><p>There was a long moment of silence, only broken by the uneven rasp of Martin's breath. Jon thought Martin might not have heard him, but before Jon could repeat himself, he spoke.</p><p>"Sorry," Martin said shakily, and Jon could feel his jaw working around the word, chin resting protectively on the top of Jon's head. "I- I'm sorry."</p><p>"It's fine." Jon responded automatically. "Do you- did something happen?"</p><p>Martin finally pulled back. His hands stayed clutching Jon's shoulders, like Martin thought he might disappear if he didn't. His face was unreadable.</p><p>"No. Yes. <em> No.</em> I mean-" Martin cut himself off with a strangled sound. "I just- I. I woke up and, and you were… not there."</p><p>Jon swore under his breath. God, what had he been thinking? Ugh, that was the problem, wasn't it, he<em> hadn't </em> been thinking. Had forgotten Martin's feelings. <em>Again.</em> Was always forgetting people's feelings. What was <em> wrong </em> with him? The only reason he hadn't palmed his own face was because he was still holding Martin's pancakes- a job too important to be interrupted by Jon's own self-loathing. </p><p>"Martin," Jon began, "I'm so sorry-"</p><p>"It's fine," Martin said, parroting Jon's words back at him, "It's- it's fine. I'm, yeah."</p><p>"It's alright if it isn't," Jon quickly reassured him. He tried to recall the magazine article he'd been reading while they waited to be checked out at the grocery store, the one about communication in relationships. Internally cursed himself for not buying it. "I mean, if it is, then it is, but if it isn't, that's also okay. We can still- we can talk about it. Do you want to talk about it?"</p><p>Martin hesitated, biting his lip. “You- we don’t have to. Nothing’s actually- I’m overreacting.”</p><p>“You aren’t.” Jon said, “Well- you might be, but it’s- you’ve had an, a bad experience-” Martin let out a bark of laughter, “-right, see, and you’re... reacting. Even if the, er, <em> experience </em> is- is over. Which it is. And you can talk about it, now. If you’d like.” he added hastily.</p><p>“I know,” Martin snapped, then visibly winced, voice softening. “I know, I promise I do, it’s just- I keep thinking, like…” he trailed off with a sigh. One of Martin’s hands slipped off of Jon’s shoulders to gesture vaguely in the air, unsure.</p><p>“...it’s all a dream?” Jon offered. That particular fear had shadowed him on more than one occasion, typically right when he woke up- until he heard Martin’s heavy footsteps, or saw the rolling hills through the windows, or noticed anything about where he was, really.</p><p>Martin hummed in consideration. “More like… you’ve, erm, realized what a mistake you’ve made and- and left.” By the time he’d finished speaking, his mouth was flattened into a grim, guilty line.</p><p>Something twisted painfully in Jon’s chest. “I wouldn’t,” he promised, hoping his voice held as much conviction as he felt. “I won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”</p><p>Words were suddenly not enough. Jon took his hand from Martin’s back to grab hold of the one hovering between them, lacing their fingers together. It was a little awkward. Martin’s fingers were bigger than his, and Jon couldn’t imagine that the rough skin of his own scars was all too pleasant. Still, it felt like the right thing to do. And he wouldn’t lie, there was something viscerally satisfying about feeling Martin’s soft palm enveloping his own.</p><p>Martin inhaled sharply. Looked down at their intertwined hands. Opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. His face had flushed, only faintly, but the pink was obvious against his pale skin. “Really?” he asked finally, voice cracking halfway through the word.</p><p>“Of course,” Jon answered, squeezing Martin’s hand. He felt his own face heat as he spoke. At least they were matching, he supposed. Though Jon would’ve preferred something more romantic. Promise rings, perhaps. “Yes, <em>of course</em>. God, Martin, I wouldn’t have even come here without you, you do know that, don’t you?”</p><p>Martin leaned forward, dragging Jon into a second hug. It was sweeter than the first. More tender, less like Martin expected Jon to be ripped from his arms at any moment. After a second, Martin's shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, slow exhale.</p><p>When they eventually broke apart, Martin gave Jon a small, tentative smile. His face was dry, but he wiped hastily at the corners of his eyes. "I know," he said again. "I know. I just… forget, sometimes, I guess?" He chuckled bitterly.</p><p>“Well,” Jon cleared his throat, all at once very aware of just how close they were standing, of every spot they were still touching. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to shy away or press closer. It was maddening. He shifted nervously, readjusting his grip on Martin's food. “It’s a good thing I’ll be here to remind you, then.”</p><p>For the first time, Martin seemed to notice the plate in Jon’s hand. He blinked in confusion. “What are you- are those pancakes?”</p><p>“Ah, that's- they’re likely cold by now, but they’re, er,” he thrust them in front of Martin, trying his hardest to maintain eye contact, “for you. For breakfast. I made them.” Jon internally cringed at how stiff he sounded. <em> Christ, stop talking. Stop talking right now. </em></p><p>Martin just stared at the plate of burnt pancakes, at the half-full cup of lukewarm tea balanced on it. Then, to Jon’s horror, he burst into tears.</p><p>“You don’t have to eat it!” Jon yelped. "I shouldn’t have- I only thought you might like- you’re always up so early, and I never get the chance to help you cook in the mornings, and I wanted to make you something to, to say thank you? Are you- is it the chocolate? I know they look awful, but they don't- I think there's still an oatmeal packet in the cabinet, if you-"</p><p>“Jon,” Martin interrupted him. He was choked with tears, but there was an unexpected fondness to his voice. “<em> Jon</em><em>.</em> Nothing’s wrong. They’re perfect. Thank you.”</p><p>Jon’s frantic thoughts screeched to a halt. “I... see.” he said, not seeing in the slightest. He was <em> utterly </em> confused. Was this good or bad? What would the magazine want him to do in this situation? He opened his mouth to say something helpful, but instead what came out was: “Why are you crying?”</p><p>Martin laughed again, letting go of Jon to run a hand through his own hair. "Another- more <em> reactions,</em> I- I guess." He swallows wetly. "No one's ever… I, I just can't remember the last time anyone's made me breakfast."</p><p>"...Oh." Jon said dumbly. "Not even- oh."</p><p>"Yeah." Martin grinned, somewhat hysterically. He took the dish from Jon's hands, taking the cup of tea into one of his own. </p><p>There was no kitchen table in Daisy's safehouse, so they ended up on the floor, a thin layer of blankets the only thing between them and the cold wood. They were sitting side-by-side, backs against the living room wall. Martin was holding his half-drunk tea in his lap, balancing what remained of the plate of pancakes on his knees. He kept glancing back between the food and Jon with such a look of… <em> something </em>that Jon had to turn his eyes away, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze even when it wasn’t fixed on him. </p><p>Martin seemed to like the pancakes. At least, he said so when Jon asked. Jon had had to turn his face away after he watched Martin take his first sip of tea, hiding his satisfaction at Martin’s look of pleasant surprise. </p><p>The quiet was nice, even if Jon itched to break it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… whatever it was he was feeling. In a moment of weakness, he slipped his hands in front of himself and flapped them. </p><p>It was absurdly satisfying. The motion of his wrist, levering back and forth gently. The rush of air on his fingertips. Once he started, he didn’t want to stop. </p><p>Then, he came back to himself rather abruptly. Martin had paused his eating to watch him, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Jon flushed in embarrassment, shoving his hands under his knees before realizing that was <em> worse </em> and dropping them in his lap like a normal person. He grit his teeth. <em> Damn. </em> Just like him, to finally make Martin happy, then go and ruin it by doing something all… <em> off-putting.</em> Maybe he could say that his hands hurt- would Martin buy that? It wasn’t too out-there, right? Merely shaking out the cold. Maybe he could still salvage this.</p><p>“You don’t have to stop,” Martin murmured, right as Jon began to say “I was just-”.</p><p>Suddenly, Jon was hit with a rush of knowledge- more of a memory, really. One second he was lost in his own thoughts and the next he was thrust into someone else's, not noticing the current until it'd already dragged him beneath the waves.</p><p><em> Martin was standing in the Archives. The archives </em> proper,<em> with its winding corridors and dusty carpets. He didn't know what he'd been expecting when he'd been offered the transfer- maybe a library, or something more like Artefact storage. The wing he'd walked into looked more like someone had tried to build a maze out of bookshelves and filing cabinets, then let a bull loose in the middle. Every available space was taken up by a truly ghastly amount of files. Most were stuffed into the shelves, packed so tight Martin thought it might take a crowbar to pry them out. Others were loose, littering tables, or even the </em> floor<em>, like autumn leaves. </em></p><p><em>Martin's colleague, Jon- </em>no, <em>he reminded himself, </em>his new <em>boss-</em> <em>was down the aisle, struggling to pull a box of files down from the top shelf. It was almost comical, seeing someone so short try so hard to ignore his own height. Martin couldn't decide whether to laugh or offer help. He was pretty sure both options would piss Jon off, though, and their relationship was already kind of strained. Best to just hover nearby, he decided, on the off chance he</em> did<em> need to step in and stop Jon from getting crushed.</em></p><p>
  <em> In the end, Jon was fine. He got the files down with only a few close calls, and the way he grinned to himself made Martin's heart swell with something it’d probably be best not to examine too closely. Still smiling, Jon brought his hands up and flailed them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It took Martin a second to realize what Jon was doing- then he had to physically cover his own mouth to stop himself from d’awwing.  </em>
</p><p><em> It was pretty obvious Jon had forgotten he was there, but Martin couldn’t tear his gaze away. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Jon so happy. One person had </em> no right <em> to look so cute. Especially not </em> Jon,<em> of all people, who wore a scowl like he put it on in the morning.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Martin eventually managed to look away, going back to his own task of loading crates full of unorganized statements. Jon stopped soon after, seemingly jerked back into reality by the sound. But Martin kept him in his periphery for the rest of the day. Just in case. </em>
</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>Jon jolted out of the recollection at his name, chest flooding with guilt and warmth in equal measures.</p><p>“Yes?” he asked, throat dry. Why was his heart beating so fast?</p><p>“I just, I want you to know that-” Martin shifted, fiddling with the bag in his tea. “I’m not going to, to judge or anything. You can do that around me, if you want to.”</p><p>Jon clenched his hands, considering. To his surprise, he believed Martin. It shouldn’t have been surprising, not really, it was just- Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that sort of thing in front of another person. Knowingly, at least. It had to have been back in middle school, and a shudder ran through him at the memory of all the laughter. He’d been mocked for weeks, other kids shaking their arms at him in imitation every time he passed.</p><p>But Martin had already seen him do it. And he’d never teased him. Hadn’t found it immature, or <em> childish.</em> He’d thought it was endearing. <em> Cute.</em> Had wanted to see Jon do it again.</p><p>Slowly, without looking up, Jon resumed the movement. It was immediately soothing. He let his eyes fall shut, focusing on the sensation.</p><p>"Does it feel good?" asked Martin, sounding genuinely curious.</p><p>"A little," Jon admitted sheepishly, "It's mostly a way to, ah, release energy." </p><p>"Oh," Martin said, "that's cool! I used to have a stress ball, but I kind of popped it? Maybe I should get another. Do you think they sell them at the shop?"</p><p>Jon hummed in consideration. "I've not seen any when we were down there, but I'm sure you could make your own."</p><p>"That's true! Maybe I'd be able to fill a water balloon with, like, flour or something?"</p><p>Jon cringed, imagining the texture. Strachy powder on latex. He made a sound of disgust.</p><p>“Alright,” Martin chuckled, “you have a better idea?”</p><p>The conversation continued through the last vestiges of breakfast, he and Martin trading idle chatter back and forth even as they cleaned up. It was oddly intimate, washing dishes with someone. (With <em> Martin.</em>)</p><p>As Martin handed him a pan to rinse, Jon realized he couldn’t remember ever doing it before. Not even with his grandmother- it’d always been just one or the other of them, alternating by the day. The discovery made something tighten in his stomach, but when he looked back at Martin, bent over the sink with his sleeves rolled up, it loosened.</p><p><em> Just one more surreal domesticity to add to the pile,</em> Jon supposed.</p><p>When he went to towel his hands, he hesitated, and shook them dry instead.</p>
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